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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24546349">A Team Player</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/telm_393/pseuds/telm_393'>telm_393</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Cancer, Post-Season/Series 05, Sickfic, Team as Family, Trust Issues, Vomiting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:47:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,623</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24546349</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/telm_393/pseuds/telm_393</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets food poisoning from a potion. His teammates help him out even though he's a stubborn bastard and a terrible patient and they should all just shove off.</p><p>(Also, there's an "it's okay to get support from your friends" talk, because of course there is.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Constantine &amp; Ava Sharpe, John Constantine &amp; Nate Heywood, John Constantine &amp; Sara Lance, John Constantine &amp; Team Legends, John Constantine/Zari Tarazi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>163</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Team Player</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The lowdown is that this takes place post-season five, but the alien abduction situation that comes up in like those last ten seconds was resolved quickly. It was just a blip and they got Sara back in short order, and now they're all back to patrolling the timeline! Yay! </p><p>I just really wanted to write some fic where John finally gets sick from eating/drinking something really, really gross. I will admit that I pulled the magic stuff out of nowhere, but I hope you can forgive me. I will also say that there's a fair amount of throwing up in this fic, but I wouldn't really call it graphic. </p><p>Also, Lita is here but her role is so minor I felt bad tagging her. Also also, I'm gonna need everyone to pretend that the medbay beds are bigger and slightly less ridiculous. </p><p>Anyway. I really enjoyed writing this and I hope you enjoy reading it.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John’s been brewing a lot of potions lately. They’re mostly experimental concoctions meant to focus his magic, and the good news is they do seem to make him stronger. Potions aren't exactly his passion, but he keeps at it, because increasing his power during missions is helpful, and he’s been told he needs to be more of a team player. So here he is, being a team player. <em> Contributing</em>. <em> Sacrificing.  </em></p><p>Ignoring the fact that the others don’t really appreciate his efforts, what with the constant complaining about how that’s not actually what being a team player means and he’s going to make himself sick. </p><p>The thing is that the ingredients for his potions aren’t for the faint of heart. Thankfully, John is not faint of heart, and he is definitely strong of stomach, and opening portals has never been easier. </p><p>…Not to mention that maybe, just maybe, he takes some or a lot of joy in the way the Legends groan and carry on when he drinks or eats something disgusting, and especially at the fact that he knows they’re grudgingly impressed when they see exactly what he can take. </p><p>This time it was a mixture of his own saliva, his own blood, and ground rat tails and bones meant to help him focus on the location of a nasty rat monster and the mad scientist who loved it, as well as open up a portal to their whereabouts. Nothing outlandish, really, but it had made the Legends recoil in disgust and Nate say, “That can<em> not </em> be good for you,” while Sara had complained that they could’ve just used Gideon, Jesus, John.</p><p>John had ignored them as he chanted the needed incantation, pretending that he wasn’t only hoping that his whole set-up would actually work, because his artisanal potions aren’t always right on the money and, as any artist would know, not every experiment pays off. But it had paid off, because they’d found themselves in a bar in 1920s Paris that was being terrorized by the exact rat monster that John was looking for, and John had laughed and said, “I’ve got a stomach of iron, squire. Don’t matter if it’s good for me or not, I won’t feel it.”</p><p>And then he’d noticed that the wave of nausea he felt when he first swallowed the potion hadn’t gone away. Actually, it was still rolling in his stomach, and he’d found himself getting distracted by it in spite of the rat monster, which...wasn’t a good sign. </p><p>It’s not like he never gets nauseous, of course. He may be fantastic at suppressing his gag reflex—something that, as a young man, made him very popular in some circles—but that only helps hide the fact that yes, he does find his disgusting concoctions disgusting, unflinching as he may be. It can’t do anything to take away the reality that his potions don’t leave him feeling fresh as a daisy. </p><p>The sticking point, though, is that usually he’d be able to shake it off, and instead he’s standing in a bar while his teammates do their thing all around him and he doesn’t do a single thing at all, because he’s afraid that if he opens his mouth he’ll throw up, and he really doesn’t want that to happen. John’s made of strong stuff. He’s not going to be cut down by his own somewhat experimental potion, and no way he’s gonna let the Legends have the satisfaction of being right. </p><p>He swallows and tries really hard to focus his attention on the scene in front of him, which is of...a neutralized scientist and rat creature. Well, that’s good. </p><p>“Wasn’t too hard, then,” John says as both scientist and rat are whisked away via time courier. His voice comes out faint. The bar is very blurry. He doesn’t feel bad about not really fighting, considering that out of all of them, he probably contributed most to the mission. What with the portal. They’re welcome. </p><p>“John?” Sara asks, and John looks in the general direction of her voice. There’s suspicion in her eyes. </p><p>“Yeah, love?” John doesn’t manage to say, because his stomach finally reveals that it’s bound to the laws of nature and he doubles over and gets sick all over the floor. </p><p>John’s gotten sick in plenty of bars, but he’s almost sure that this is the first time alcohol hasn’t been involved. </p><p>Zari lets out a shriek, and Behrad whines, “Oh, gross.”</p><p>John stares down blearily at his feet, and says, glumly, “Oh. Gross.”</p><p>Then he doesn’t collapse, but he comes close, knees getting weak. Nate grabs him before he can actually end up on the floor, and John feels off enough that he doesn’t even try and push him away. “Don’t think that potion agreed with me,” John mumbles.</p><p>Nate snorts as he pushes John through the portal to the ship’s medbay that Ava opened with her time courier at some point when John was watching the entire universe swim around him, because, admittedly, there are more ways to open portals than magic. John just forgets, because technology is nonsense. </p><p>“Told you it couldn’t be good for you,” Nate says as he sits John down on what passes for a bed in medical, maneuvering it to stretch it out a bit, and someone manages to shove a bucket in front of him, which he embraces like an old friend.</p><p>John can hear Zari saying something about hydration, and Nate something about heart rate. The door opens and closes. </p><p>“We’re gonna get you some water,” Sara, who’s sat next to him and is patting him between his shoulder-blades, says. John’s grateful enough for that, he guesses. “You really have to take better care of yourself,” Sara follows up, and John takes back any charitable feelings he just had.</p><p>John scowls into the bucket, which is a better friend than any of his teammates, clearly. Nonjudgmental, at least. “Oh, like it didn’t cut down the time it took to find the bloody scientist.” His body gives into another surge of nausea, but he doesn’t forget to mutter afterwards, “Can’t get any appreciation ‘round here.” </p><p>Sara lets out what’s obviously an aborted laugh, and John says, sullenly, “Yeah, I like this bucket much better’n you.” </p><p>“...What?” Sara asks, sounding more amused than offended.</p><p>“You ‘eard me,” John mutters, and then he’s sick again. </p><p>“Okay,” Sara says, standing up. “Gideon?”</p><p>“It seems that Mr. Constantine has food poisoning. I am at a loss as to why that could be.”</p><p>“Ooh, sarcasm,” Sara says, amused. “Nice.”</p><p>“She’s just jealous I found it before she did, she is,” John mutters, clutching the sick bucket protectively against his chest. </p><p>The door to the medbay slides back open and John hears the clicking of Zari’s heels in his head. Very, very loudly. Everything is loud. For a bit, it was just him and Sara and the sick bucket, but now the rest of the room rushes at him: the monitors, Behrad monitoring the monitors, Ava standing at the foot of the bed with her arms crossed. </p><p>“What’s going on?” a young voice asks, and John groans and then gags. “Woah, is he okay?”</p><p>“What’s that muppet doin’ here?” John asks, voice echoing slightly in the bucket. </p><p>“Watch it, Weasel,” Mick, who John now remembers wasn’t at the mission because he’s got his daughter for the weekend, growls, and John spits into the sick bucket.</p><p>“Get her out of here,” he mutters.</p><p>“He’s not okay,” Zari informs Lita. “Because he drank a bunch of rat parts.”</p><p>“What? Ew.”</p><p>“It’s sorcery, lass,” John says. “Just doin’ my job.”</p><p>Sara snorts and Zari says, “Behold! The glitz and glamour of a life as a Master of the Dark Arts!”</p><p>Behrad laughs, and John finally looks up from the bucket and glowers at the hecklers surrounding him. “Yeah, yeah, thanks a lot for all the support, now sod off.”</p><p>“Okay, okay, stop antagonizing him,” Sara says with amusement in her voice, and Zari rolls her eyes and walks over. </p><p>“You need to hydrate,” she informs him, prodding at his shoulder. Her hair is piled on her head, and her red lipstick is distracting. Back when his life wasn’t in fucking shambles, he’d kissed her while she was wearing that same color lipstick. That was yesterday. </p><p>Zari’s holding up a bottle of some kind of blue sports drink, and John shudders and shakes his head. </p><p>The idea of ingesting anything seems like a very bad one, since last time he ingested something, this happened.</p><p>“Don’t be dumb, you’re just gonna feel worse if you don’t,” Zari says, and John glares at her and reaches around the sick bucket to snatch the sports drink from her hand. Zari’s helpfully already opened it, but John doesn’t notice until he’s actually grabbed it, which means that roughly half the drink sloshes out of the bottle, and then, in spite of the protests of everyone around him except Mick, who’s judging in silence, he chugs what’s left. </p><p>To the surprise of absolutely nobody, including John, he immediately drops the bottle and hurls into the sick bucket, his whole body heaving. </p><p>“Ohhh, no, nope, I’m not taking the risk of getting puke on these clothes,” Zari declares, and she sweeps out of the room.</p><p>John’s too busy with the vomiting to feel hurt. Besides, it’s not like he expects Zari to stick around. Sure, they have a thing, as Zari says, but being around when someone’s vomiting is very different than shagging them. </p><p>“This is what happens when you drink things to make an unidentifiable point,” Behrad says sagely, and John would throw the damned sick bucket at him, but it’s in use. </p><p>+</p><p>In John’s life, bad things usually happen and then get worse. Food poisoning isn’t different, and John spends what feels like forever but is definitely just a couple of hours being violently sick in several different ways before falling asleep. The good news is that when he wakes up, he’s come back to himself. When he tries to take stock of the space around him, he sees he’s alone, and what might be fear and is definitely pain stabs at his stomach. </p><p>He could’ve sworn that he heard people talking to him and even felt them patting his arms or stroking his hair, and someone definitely took off his coat and tie and shoes when the illness was at its peak. He still has a discomfiting moment of wondering whether he somehow imagined it all before he notices Sara perched on the foot of the bed. </p><p>He grimaces at her, and Sara gives him a smile. There’s relief at the edges. “You got a fever,” she tells him. </p><p>“I can feel that,” he responds, because, unfortunately, he can. </p><p>“We tried to give you water, but you couldn’t keep it down, so…” Sara nods at the IV in John’s arm, and John grimaces again, though he’s sure it helped, because even he knows that dehydration doesn’t do anyone any favors. He’s pretty sure he feels better. Maybe he’s turning a corner, he thinks as he manages to sit himself up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. </p><p>He then grabs the sick bucket and hugs it to his chest again. Yeah, he’s turning a corner, all right, because he’s conscious, but apparently he hasn’t turned that hard. </p><p>“I don’t think you should leave yet,” Sara tells him, and John slumps. He’s not sure if he could if he wanted to. Actually, he is sure, because he wants to leave and he can’t. </p><p>“You gonna cool it on the potions?” Sara asks, taking a seat next to him, and John scowls at her.</p><p>“Not bloody likely,” he says, even though yes, he is seriously considering cooling it on the potions and only eating the technically inedible when it’s really necessary.</p><p>“I’m a Master of the Dark Arts,” he tells Sara bleakly before heaving again. </p><p>Sara rubs his back. He pretends he doesn’t notice.</p><p>At some point, Sara leaves and Nate takes her place, which makes irritation bite at John, because no one has to take her place. John doesn’t need to be watched. For one, he’s a bloody adult. Two, he’s still trying to get up the energy to stand, let alone run off. He felt more vital when he was literally on the verge of dying, though maybe that was because he had a goal other than not vomiting all of his internal organs.</p><p>And yet Nate’s still in the room with him, reading some history book, ostensibly present to monitor John’s vitals even though Gideon’s right there.</p><p>“Temperature has gone down,” Gideon notes, and Nate looks at the monitor, frowning. John takes a peek at the monitor too. Pulse ox 96, heart rate 107, which is excellent compared to what it was before, temperature 38. </p><p>“Huh, yeah, definitely not as elevated as before,” Nate says.</p><p>“Though Mr. Constantine’s temperature usually averages out at 36.” </p><p>“How in the world do you know that?” John mumbles from the position he’s taken on the bed, cross-legged with the sick bucket balanced on his knees and also clutched against his chest.</p><p>He shivers violently, and Nate looks at him and makes a tsking sound. “Jesus, John, you really did a number on yourself.”</p><p>“Remember when you drank so much coffee you threw up on Mick and then passed out?” John asks, voice tetchy, and Nate chuckles.</p><p>“I see we’re resorting to ad hominem tu quoque,” Nate says, and John gives him a flat look. </p><p>“I’ll happily resort to vim ignis if you prefer that,” John offers, and Nate laughs. Then he gives John a searching look that makes John avoid his eyes, which leads to looking down at the sick bucket again. The more time John spends with it, the less affection he has towards it. Probably because he’s not high on misery anymore. Just low on everything except a gaggle of mother hens.  </p><p>“You know we still think you’re cool even when you’re not poisoning yourself, right?” Nate asks, and at that, John’s head snaps up to look at him.</p><p>
  <em> “What?”  </em>
</p><p>Nate shrugs from the chair he’s lounging in. “I said what I said.”</p><p>“You certainly did, squire, but it made no sense,” John replies, bristling. “I don’t care about whether I'm <em>cool </em>to you lot." The only good thing about this is that the burning in his face can be taken as fever. </p><p>Nate raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t believe John, and for a moment, John is offended at the assumption that he’s lying about something so stupid. Then his body shudders again and he tightens his grip on the sick bucket. </p><p>“Are you gonna puke?” Nate asks, sitting up, and John glares.</p><p>“No,” he hisses, and then he retches into the bucket, bringing up the toast that he heroically forced down earlier. </p><p>“Nice save,” Nate says, and John seethes. Or at least a quarter of him seethes. The other parts of him are distracted by the pounding in his head and the horrible taste in his mouth. “Here,” Nate says, giving John a tiny plastic cup. “Mouthwash. Don’t swallow it.”</p><p>John suspects that it’ll make him gag whether he swallows it or not, and it does, but at least it doesn’t make him actually vomit, and it does get some of the taste out of his mouth. “Thanks,” John mumbles in a very quiet voice, hoping Nate won’t hear, and Nate either doesn’t hear or pretends not to. John's fine with either option.</p><p>“I need to get out of here,” John says, because he’s not a fan of beeping things or having an IV in his arm. </p><p>“As soon as you can keep down water and, like, a cracker for twenty minutes,” Nate assures, and John rolls his eyes. He could just get up and go. He’s starting to think he might be able to walk. He can pull the IV right out. But then he’d be bleeding everywhere, and he still feels like the nausea is covering his body like a blanket, and he’s got nowhere to be for the first time in a long time, so he just mutters, “Fine. Then bring me some water.” </p><p>“Got you covered,” Ava says, and John starts, throwing a look at the door. God, the rotating cast of people coming in and out, no one leaving him alone for a second, no one trusting him to be alone for a second—it reminds him of bloody Ravenscar. Except he’s lucid, with people he likes, and somehow he still has the will to live, in spite of everything. So not that much like Ravenscar, but it definitely is like...something.</p><p>Really, John’s just struggling to understand why what’s a minor inconvenience at best feels so dramatic when he’s nearly died of cancer. Maybe it’s because the whole thing’s a little silly in a way that wounds John’s pride, or because there’s nothing for the others to do but fuss and I-told-you-so at him, or because there’s nothing for <em> him </em> to do but wait until he’s not ill. Or all of that. </p><p>“Okay, I have water and crackers for you,” Ava says. “And a new bucket for when you leave. No one wants to clean the thing you’ve already got out.”</p><p>Yeah, fair enough. </p><p>With a lot of effort, John sets the bucket aside and accepts the water and crackers. There’s only three of them. He can do that. It’s not like the others are actually too fussed about medical professionalism; their rules for “discharge” aren’t exactly harsh, and the IV has been in long enough that he’s sure it’s done at least some of its job.</p><p>John sips the water slowly and nibbles on the crackers, and after a nerve-wracking half hour, he’s done and hasn’t even gagged, in spite of his nonexistent gag reflex currently being…extant. He lies back against the medbay bed—and apparently even decades in the future no one can be arsed to make comfortable hospital beds—with his knees bent and arms crossed over his stomach, and stares up at the ceiling, trying to keep down the pathetic amount of food he just ate.</p><p>“Take deep breaths,” Ava, who has fully replaced Nate after he wandered out of the room, says. “Into your diaphragm. It’ll keep you from puking.” </p><p>“I have been taking deep breaths, Sharpie,” John mutters.</p><p>“I’ve been watching you this whole time. If you’re taking deep breaths, they’re not deep enough. Breathe into your stomach, John.”</p><p>Oh, Ava. Still thinks she’s the boss. Somehow, John holds back from saying that, and instead takes a resentful breath into his diaphragm, and then another, and another. </p><p>In spite of the shooting, cramping pain in his stomach and the cold sweat and the feeling of fever-heat that is also, somehow, nausea, the deep breathing does make it more bearable. It at least helps him keep the bloody crackers and water down long enough that he’s able to sit up, swing his legs over the side of the bed, and, feeling like he just jarred all of his internal organs but not like he needs the sick bucket, say, “All right, then, I’m leaving. Have to go about my day, don’t I?”</p><p>Ava rolls her eyes, but gets to work removing the IV. John wonders if she took a class or what, but there’s no shooting blood, so he doesn’t care. “It’s not the day anymore, John, and it’s movie night, so let’s, uh...get on that.” </p><p>John lets out an incredulous laugh. His head pounds. “You think I’m going to <em> movie night?” </em></p><p>“It’s required team bonding,” Ava says in a lofty voice. “Unless you really, really want to go back to your creepy room and try to sleep alone and have basically no one to help you out if you get sick again <em> or </em> if you get sicker. I mean, it was a potion, God knows if it could do something new and exciting later.” </p><p>Honestly, John really, really does <em> not </em> want to go back to his room, even though he knows that Gideon would call for help if he got worse, so there’s really no reason to worry, not that getting worse is something to worry about. John has felt much worse before, he reminds himself. It’s something he forgot while he was wrapped up in his own embarrassment and illness, but he really has been, even as a little kid, and he went it alone back then, didn’t he? </p><p>And there’s no reason he’d go to a movie night in the best of circumstances, let alone now, he tells himself, even though that’s a lie. He does go to movie nights. </p><p>He usually reads and eats the snacks and drinks over actually watching the movies, but it’s comfortable. He likes hearing the others talk and laugh. Occasionally Mick plays cards with him, one of the only times they can make some sort of peace, though most of the cards end up burnt by either or both of them. Sometimes (most of the time) John falls asleep before the second movie ends, usually on Zari, and wakes up on the couch with a blanket thrown over him, having had not-unpleasant, if not pleasant, dreams. </p><p>Fuck. John likes movie nights, and apparently likes being around the others enough that the idea of fucking movie night is tempting even when he feels like a giant ball of suppressed nausea. And even though they obviously just want to keep an eye on him like he’s some kind of child, and not even the kind of child he was, because no one kept an eye on <em> that </em>child, and he turned out fine. In some alternate universe that probably exists. </p><p>His thoughts frustrate him enough that he says, “I’m not going to bloody movie night just so you lot can make fun of me.” Besides, he has to admit that at this point he really does feel better. Even the overwhelming urge to vomit has been mostly replaced with a feeling of malaise. He probably would be able to get to sleep just out of sheer exhaustion. </p><p>Who knows about sleeping through the night, though, considering that the fever doesn’t seem to have disappeared and he’s not sure if the crackers are going to stay down forever, let alone anything else he eats, and his stomach is still rolling, if gently, and his body is throbbing, and there’s a strange feeling of restlessness buzzing through the exhaustion. Still, he’s well enough that he doesn’t have even a shred of an excuse for giving into his teammates, except for how he finds that the idea of being alone right now hurts more than the stomachache. </p><p>Well, he’s definitely learned from this experience. He’s learned that he’s gone soft and that his stomach of iron is capable of betraying him and that being mildly ill makes him pathetic, and his teammates apparently think he’s pathetic too, and it all makes him feel a surge of embarrassed anger. “I’m fine on my own, Sharpie, and I would’ve been fine on my own since the beginning of this whole mess.”</p><p>Ava groans, and John nearly growls, shooting her a glare that really should make her stand down. She doesn’t. John hates himself for being an idiot. </p><p>Ava takes a deep breath, looks up at the ceiling as though trying to gather strength from the man upstairs, and then looks right back at him and says, “Look, John, no offense, but—grow up. You’re part of this team. Your lone wolf, doom and gloom, self-destructive thing isn’t. It’s all a coping mechanism, but there’s a much healthier coping mechanism literally right in front of you.” </p><p>“And that is?”</p><p>“Relying on your friends a little, John, oh my God, you’ve gotten this speech like seventy times by now. Look, we’re not making fun of you. Okay, maybe a little, but...” Ava sighs. John stiffens. She looks like she’s gathering herself to talk about feelings, and he can’t even run, though he has high hopes for walking. “John. You were actually pretty sick for a few hours, and after the cancer scare it freaked us out.”</p><p>“It’s food poisoning, Sharpie, I’m not on death’s door,” John says, voice dry as the toast he recently threw up. </p><p>(He remembers blood in his mouth and on his chin and his shirt, the palpable worry all around him before he was sedated, and tries very hard to push it out of his head. He didn’t really think most of the Legends were all that bothered by it, at least not enough to still have it in mind now, and doesn’t know how he feels about that.)</p><p>Ava doesn’t look amused as she says, “Seriously, John. It’s not like we really get how this magic stuff works. Of course it’s freaking us out, and this time we can do something, and, I mean, you’re a flight risk...”</p><p>Ava’s rambling now, and John barks out a laugh. “Flight risk?”</p><p>“Sorry, do you have a better way of putting it?”</p><p>“Free spirit,” John says with a bitter smile. At least that’s what he’s always tried to be. </p><p>“Sure,” Ava says. “Just come to movie night. Come spend time with us.”</p><p>“So you can make sure I don’t die?” John asks, trying to sound mocking, but his heart’s not in it. His heart’s occupied by other things, like tachycardia and a sort of wounded, hopeful attachment to these idiots he calls friends.</p><p>“So we can make sure you don’t die,” Ava agrees, and John takes another deep breath and hoists himself up and off the bed.</p><p>Ah, there’s a reminder that he still feels like shite, he thinks as a violent crash of nausea makes him gag.  </p><p>“I can hold it down,” he says quickly, and Ava grabs his shoulder, probably because she knows him well enough to be aware that if she tries to get his arm around her so she can actually support him, he will push her away. </p><p>Slowly, they make their way to bloody movie night.</p><p>+</p><p>John sits down on the couch in whatever they’re calling the room where they watch movies, which is nicer than the cinema he used to sneak into when he was little, holding onto his shiny new sick bucket for dear life even though he’s really got nothing left to throw up but bile and repressed emotions. </p><p>John’s staring at the dim, mesmerizingly swirly room in front of him when Zari sits next to him. He knows it’s her because he can feel her hair brushing his cheek, and is a bit surprised that she deigned to be so close to him. She seemed very concerned about her clothes earlier. He leans against her, and since he’s not putting enough energy into gripping the sick bucket, it rolls to the ground. Thankfully, it’s still empty. </p><p>“Gross,” Zari mutters, but then she puts her arm around John’s shoulders.</p><p>Her hand travels up to his head, and she pushes a little at his temple. He lets his head flop against her shoulder. “I don’t feel good,” he says in what he promises himself he’ll refuse to admit is a whinge until his dying day, disappointed that leaving the medbay didn’t suddenly grant him health. </p><p>In a stunning turn of events, Zari doesn’t laugh, instead making a sympathetic sound. “I know,” she coos. “Poor thing.”</p><p>She’s definitely mocking him, but he nods against her shoulder, and Zari’s sympathetic sound this time sounds a lot more sincere. She keeps her hand on his head even when he shivers, though she stiffens. “Are you gonna throw up?”</p><p>John mumbles, “Pro’lly. But not right now. I don’t think.”</p><p>Zari snorts and, through his bleary eyes, John sees her stretch her legs out in front of her. She’s wearing socks. They’re clean, but too big on her. So are her joggers, actually. Joggers? Zari would rather die than wear those. He blinks and takes stock of the shirt he’s leaning against, and realizes that his cheek is resting against soft, smooth, loose cotton. He looks down slightly, and sees a flash of black and white in the corner of his eye. </p><p>“Are you wearing Behrad’s clothes?” John asks. </p><p>Zari rests her head on his, and he loses his train of thought. “Your hair’s so soft,” he murmurs. </p><p>“I know,” she says, smug. “It’s the Dragon Girl brand conditioner.” </p><p>John feels his stomach suddenly flare with pain, and nausea washes over his whole body. He lets out a wounded noise, because dignity is dead, and then takes some deep breaths like Ava told him to. Zari stiffens against him, as if poised to get the sick bucket, but then the nausea is slightly less horrific. He leans harder against Zari. He’s so, so damn tired.</p><p>He slumps even further against Zari, dislodging her as he melts his way down her upper body. “Wow,” Zari mutters. “Okay, okay, gimme a moment.” She suddenly disappears, and John makes a disappointed sound as his head meets the couch cushions. She’s standing in front of him now. Balefully, he looks up at her. </p><p>“You’re leaving?” he asks, voice coming out plaintive as he attempts to focus his gaze on her. Her hair’s in a ponytail, though some is spilling out artfully, and she <em> is </em>wearing Behrad’s clothes—beat-up black joggers and some black and white button-up monstrosity, though it’s not buttoned up all the way. She’s not wearing make-up. </p><p>John blinks at Zari. She’s got her hip cocked and her arms across her chest and her expression is what John would call gentle and fond if people looked at him gently and fondly. He feels a pang of hurt. “‘S fine, then,” he mumbles up at her. “I don’t care if you leave. You go be pretty somewhere else, I don’t mind, I’ll jus’ stay here with the bucket.”</p><p>A smile spreads across Zari’s face, and despite everything John nearly smiles back before there’s a stab of pain in his stomach and he groans instead, closing his eyes. It takes him a few seconds before he can stand to open them again, and Zari’s still there. “Okay, put your feet up or you’re gonna fall off the couch,” Zari says, and John realizes that in spite of the fact that most of his body is now horizontal, he hasn’t actually put his feet up on the couch, and yeah, he’s close to falling. </p><p>With some difficulty, he puts his feet up and moves himself so that he’s lying firmly on the couch instead of half off of it. Zari still doesn’t leave. </p><p>Instead, she tries to nudge him over a bit. He bats at her hands, not sure what her angle is. </p><p>Her angle is, apparently, “Oh my God, let me sit down, you giant baby, I’m trying to put your head in my lap.”</p><p>“Oh,” John says. Again with some difficulty, he manages to partially sit up, and Zari manages to wholly sit down, and he lets his head fall to her lap more heavily than he meant it to. </p><p>He curls up against her, facing the room, and Zari starts stroking his hair, which is nice. </p><p>They stay there together for a while, John breathing slowly and deeply, eyes closed, focusing on Zari’s presence to keep himself from remembering that his body’s a wreck.</p><p>He’s exhausted enough that he doesn’t even move when he hears footsteps making their way into the living room or whatever they call it.</p><p>“Aw,” he hears Sara say in the background, because everything feels like it’s in the background to John right now except for him and Zari. “You guys are cute together. Aren’t they cute together, Ava?”</p><p>“I never thought I’d say it, babe, but they’re totally cute together.”</p><p>“Oh my God,” Zari says, mortified. Her hand on John’s hair pauses in its stroking, and John makes a noise of protest. She starts stroking again, and John settles. “…Oh, shut <em> up, </em>” Zari says. “Put something on so he doesn’t wake up alone.”</p><p>“Like you’re gonna leave him,” Sara says, voice teasing. </p><p>“Like <em> you’re </em>gonna leave him either.”</p><p>“It’s movie night! What am I supposed to do, just miss it because John’s body decided to act like a human body for once?”</p><p>“I thought we all agreed it was to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t choke in his sleep,” Nate says, a laugh in his voice as he makes his way into the room. “What does he even like? <em> The Seventh Seal? The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari? </em> Wait, what <em> does </em>John like? He’s never chosen a movie before.”</p><p>“Uh, he’s not choosing the movie now either, bro, so go nuts,” Behrad says. “He’s already sleeping.”</p><p>John isn’t actually sleeping, but he’s getting close. The familiar voices of the others are better than a lullaby. His breathing is deep and even, and the pain in his stomach is waning and the nausea isn’t crawling up his throat anymore, and for the first time today he actually feels comfortable. He feels <em> better, </em> and not just physically, and he decides to let himself enjoy it.  </p><p>“If he wakes up sick, you’re probably gonna get <em> something </em> on you,” Lita points out, and John feels himself grip at Behrad’s-joggers-on-Zari just in case she decides to come to her senses and leave him. </p><p>“It’s fine,” Zari says flippantly, not pausing in her hair-stroking and clearly not coming to her senses. “I’m planning to burn these clothes anyway.”</p><p>John feels a grin flit across his face as Behrad makes a joking protest, and the comforts of home fade into an unexpectedly peaceful sleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Ad hominem tu quoque = a fallacy where one attacks a person for things they've done in the past to divert from whatever they're arguing about in the present</p><p>Vim ignis = the fire</p><p>Thank you to within_a_dream for the alpha and beta read!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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